Almost as soon as the group appeared the loud heckling began in earnest. Whatever these women had been in the years preceding - beautiful, respectable, kind, cheerful, trusted, caring or steadfast - was gone now. In their place were the very visions of witchery and evil: dirty, ragged and hunched old crones, their faces ravaged by a potent combination of age, hunger, fear and disease.
To a trained or considerate eye, each and every defendant might actually look more like the poor and unfortunate, the decrepit and diseased - victims of imagination, perhaps, but not handmaidens of Satan. As far as the crowds were concerned, however, they looked otherwise. The grand jury had thought otherwise and that was more than enough for them. Now it was time for the trial jury to decide.
Rebecca Jones, a widow, was the first to be called and was asked by the clerk to hold up her right hand. Translating from the Latin, he told her she was charged with bewitching Thomas and Katherine Bumstead to death, and asked how she pleaded. She answered ‘not guilty’, thus putting herself on God and the country, as the contemporary legal formula saw fit to phrase it.
The process was repeated until four of the women had pleaded not guilty. At which point the trial jury - twelve just and sufficient freeholders - was duly sworn in. Rachael did not utter a word of defence. Instead she just moved where she was pushed and stared where her eyes might take her. All the time repeating to herself ‘I shall not want. I shall not want’ in a low, ominous mumble. It was unclear to those gathered if she actually saw or heard anything which occurred around her, so deep was her obvious bewitching.
Throughout the short trials, defendants interrupted plaintiffs, witnesses on both sides protested vehemently and the judge also interjected voraciously whenever he saw fit. To add to the furore, the spectators constantly heckled and hissed at the accused and the crowd at the windows was even less restrained. The only lull of any kind came when a very self-assured gentleman indeed - Master Matthew Hopkins - finally took to the stand.
Catching the eyes of every juror and almost every spectator as he spoke, his tone more akin that of a man riding into town and selling potions, Hopkins began by recalling the night in February when he had witnessed Rachael Garland’s most terrifying display of familiarity with the Devil himself. He explained how a cat-like imp by the name of ‘Sacke and Sugar’ had infected the shadow of a rat and saw fit to have it feast on Goodwife Morley’s blood so that it might gain sustenance. He did not mention, of course, that it was just a minor cut on the finger as that might serve to ruin the image he was carefully casting into the minds of those gathered. He then told how a darkness fell and the Devil arrived and threw a curse across Widow Potts which had rendered her unable to speak for almost three full days. How the Dark Lord had also tried to lure Widow Lawton into his coven by taking the form of her long-dead husband. Also, with a glance to the doe-eyed Prudence watching his delivery in awe from the gallery, he explained how Rachael had told the young girl, in a thousand male voices, that she was ‘a clever bytch’ for finally drawing Him out into the open.
After all witnesses had been heard against the five, Warwick asked the jury to deliver their verdicts. With the sheer quantity of business they had to get through, however, they were not afforded the opportunity to retire. All five woman were instantly found guilty and the clerk duly marked each indictment ‘cul’ - short for ‘culpabilis’. With so many accused, and in conditions so cramped and increasingly vile, judgment was passed there and then so that the guilty could be taken down and the next batch ushered forward. There was only one sentence that could be passed for witchcraft, and it was recorded by the clerk as ‘susp’.
All five women were to be suspended by their necks until they were dead.
At the end of the day’s proceedings, following a plea from Mr. Endymion Porter of Manningtree, it was further ordered that four of the condemned - Helen Clarke and Rachael Garland, also of Manningtree, Anne West of Lawford and Anne Leech of Mistley - should all be hanged not at Chelmsford but in their home borough. They would be taken to Colchester at first light on Wednesday and then, at first light on Friday, they would be bundled up again and carted off to Manningtree where they would be hung at noon the very same day.
* * * * *
With little time to waste, and no earthly reason to waste it, the following day was set aside for the Chelmsford executions. Fifteen condemned women were separated from those with whom they had shared their final days or weeks and herded to the market square to face the taunts, jabs and spittle of a tumultuous, heckling and vicious crowd.
On the way to the gallows, Margaret Moone of Thorpe collapsed in the midst of a heaving mob and died on the stones. It was later claimed that as she lay dying she cried out that ‘the Devil had often told her she should never be hanged’ - an indication both that the jury had been right to condemn her as a witch, and that He was ‘truer to some of his servants than some wicked men are to their neighbours’.
One by one the other women were made to climb the ladder. Silence fell on only two occasions. The first was when they were offered one final chance to repent their sins and the crowd readied to hear what words they might spin. Not one repented. These were not murderers, nor were they thieves or vagabonds. These were ordinary women trying to live ordinary lives in the harshest of times. One might have said ‘I pray your son falls soon into a lake’ to an antagonistic neighbour only to find that it came to pass and the child drowned, but none had actually committed a crime; not in their own eyes and probably not even in the eyes of their God. Not one among them felt they had a single thing in life they needed to make repentance for. If they did, they chose not to voice it.
The second breath of silence came when the ladders were finally kicked. It lasted only a few brief seconds before there was was the sound of a crack and the cheering started again.
* * * * *
Huddled within the putrid confines of the Shire House cells, staring into nothing and mouthing a series of disjointed words to herself alone, the sounds from outside did not escape even Rachael’s ears. The thoughts which bounced between those ears were fragmented and confused, like the shards of a broken vase rattling around inside her head, but even she could sense the finality that was drifting like another bad smell through high glow of the single tiny window.
When the silence hit for the second time, followed less than a heartbeat later by the whip-crack of wood and necks, she visibly winced. Like everything else in this place it was not of her doing. It was instinctive, and completely out of her control.
Her subconscious sensed it and it told her reflexes to react. That was all.
Short of the still incapacitated Master William, there was not one alive in this vile place and time who cared if she lived. Perhaps not even she herself. There was no shortage, however, of those who wanted her dead.
Staring at the tiny square of light above, which seemed to get smaller with every passing second, the first tear she had shed in this place broke her wall of feigned resilience and crept slowly into view. It had barely made it halfway down her cheek, sparkling like a diamond in the dark confines of the cell, before a second took its place. It was not yet noon, but they would keep on coming, as they had in France. They would still be coming long after night had fallen.
She’d had a plan. An idea. Many long and painful months ago it had appeared in her mind’s last remaining square of fertile soil and its birth had been so beautiful. So very, very beautiful. It had blossomed like a rose and grown despite the harsh conditions into which it had been planted. Soon it had been all but ready to open its fragile petals and release them to a new world, so that they might fly free and unhindered on the warmest of summer breezes. It was an idea that might well save her life.
But it hadn’t worked and, over the past few months, the idea had started to wither. It had been slowly curling back upon itself, hanging its head low in shame and doing what she herself should now prepare to do.
It was getting ready to die.
* * * * *
In the world beyond the tiny cell Rachael shared with the other Manningtree witches, the world of commotion and enjoyable hatred, the world of cheers and silent expectation, a lone figure moved hard against the tide. He walked nowhere directly, nor in any particular direction, but still he walked with clear purpose. All the while his narrowed and piercing eyes flitted through the crowds, seeking out the one thing he so desperately needed...
The market square was packed tight with revellers all desperate to see the nooses tighten close on. So the gentleman had no option but to squeeze his own path, not least because he was the only one present who was walking away from the gallows. Out in the countryside, hundreds had downed tools and saddled horses to make this journey into town. All of Chelmsford’s victuallers had stocked up on pies and puddings, and barrels and bottles had been hauled up from damp cellars ready for an outrageous onslaught of the hungry and the thirsty. Numerous ballad-sellers had set up stalls from which they sang samples of their tunes, and enterprising joiners had constructed platforms from which paying customers might have an unimpeded view of the gallows. Upstairs rooms overlooking this theatre of death had been rented out at a premium well in advance. The mood was rough and raucous, the stench of sweat and breathed-ale nigh-on unbearable.
As they pushed hard forward, so he sliced hard against them, forever scouring. He heard the silence fall around him, felt it in his bones and heard the sharp snap of death some way behind, but he ignored it completely. Still he did not look back. His focus needed to remain resolute on the things he could change, not the things he could not. So he kept on looking.
A few moments later, by the side of The Market Cross, he caught the first glimpse of his prize.
Raised on four pillars at one end of the market square, near to Chelmsford’s own St Mary’s church, The Market Cross was usually the main courthouse. The town had no purpose-built gaol, but a chamber beneath was adequate for holding any prisoners awaiting trial. Barely fit even for quarter sessions, however, the building was no match for the onslaught of a full assizes, which was why the dilapidated, cramped and thoroughly insanitary Shire House was used instead. At the side of The Market Cross, with an excellent view of the gallows, stood a group of around thirty russet-coated guards chewing on pies and chewing the fat amongst themselves. They would remain in town for the night and then, in the morning, break into groups to help escort the condemned whose end did not lie in Chelmsford, back to their home towns one final time.
The gentleman headed toward them, his head lowered but still looking each up and down whilst shielded by the crowd so as not to draw too much attention to himself. Within a few seconds he had nonchalantly passed them by with only the most furtive glance and disappeared along a tall, thin alleyway which sank into the gloom behind. A few short yards, a little more scouring and a turn of a corner later and he saw damp stains on the wall to his right. He stopped and smiled before settling himself on a low barrel under the closest torch, a live and flickering flame which hung in a black metal cage from the rough wall. He then removed his hat, laid it to the floor, casually pulled a palm-sized pie from his coat and just... waited; passing the time of day as if wondering what he might ultimately place over a stove for his tea.
It did not take long, no more than a five minutes, before one of the guards also entered the alley, tugging at his trousers and clearly busting to relieve himself of a skinful. He was a short, fat, dumpy man with unkempt hair and a crumb-filled beard. His naturally glowing, rosy cheeks had clearly been made all the more rosy from the pressure which had been steadily building within his bladder. When he saw the man, just sitting and waiting for God knows what, he stopped dead, eyeing him suspiciously
“What’s your name?” the guard asked, his voice gruff.
“Eli,” the man replied, disinterestedly.
“Help you with something?” He looked suspicious, as well he might.
The gentleman, his face lit awkwardly from the flame flickering in the breeze above his head, looked the guard up and down with disdain and casually bit into the flaky crust of the pie.
“Nope.” He turned away as though the very sight of the man disgusted him.
Confused, still suspicious, and probably barely able to go had he not been so fit to burst, the man drained himself as swiftly as he could and barely shook himself dry before he tucked himself away headed off again, still buckling his pants as he scurried back down the alley to his waiting companions.
Less than two minutes passed before another ale-laden bag of piss made his appearance around the very same corner. Taller this time, stocky in physique and perhaps in his mid-thirties, he had a face that reeked of unwarranted superiority and a deep scar running the full length of his right cheek. His defined limp as he ambled in was probably the reason he was not marching into battle right now, as many his age would be. Like his predecessor, he too eyed Eli with deep suspicion but chose to say nothing. Instead he just pulled out his member and started to piss in almost the exact same location as the shorter one had. As the flow began, he kept glancing skeptically to his side - always without actually moving his head - in order to check that the man, no more than ten feet away, was not about to make some sudden move.
Suddenly Eli lifted himself up from the barrel. “You’ll do,” he said, calmly biting the pie one more time with one hand whilst reaching into his right hand pocket with the other.
“Eh..?” The man looked up at him, his hands busy but his piss finally beginning to dry up. His eyelids were twitching but this was perhaps more from a sense of welcome confrontation than from any nerves. He had clearly had his brain’s fill of ale, plus a tankard or three more, and his snarling expression showed that handing out a beating might just round this day out lovely.
Eli retrieved a bundle of crudely-wrapped brown paper cylinders from his pocket, twisted paper tails hanging from their bases. He turned slightly, then held the tails up to the exposed flame.
Without looking at the guard, he said quietly: “Light blue touch-paper...”
In the orange glow the guard could now see that a few pieces of string, no more than a few inches long, had at some point been tied tight around the cylinders, their ends knotted through holes gouged through two leaden balls; the kind of balls one might load into a musket. Tying up his pants he watched, a little entranced by what might actually be occurring but clearly none the wiser and reluctant to make a move until he knew for sure. His eyes narrowed further and, in the absence of a weapon about his person, his fists clenched tight as the paper tails caught flame and began to sizzle. Eli then held the body of the cylinders firm together, spun them until the leaden balls hanging below picked up some degree of centrifugal speed, then turned his head and cast the guard a swift and knowing closed-mouthed smile, his eyebrows flicking upward.
“Stand. Well. Back.”
Without further warning, he launched the entire bundle high into the air, both men watching its progress. The angle of ascent was such that the incandescent glow of light went soaring clean over the two-storey building and toward the crowds still clamoured and jostling in the square beyond.
Calmly, and with no real sense of urgency whatsoever, Eli counted to five by slowly opening each of the fingers on his gloved right hand in turn.
Then he reached inside his coat.
At the precise moment the gunpowder in the firecrackers made a swift and distant series of bangs and cracks and the crowd in the square screamed and began to fall over themselves, primarily through little more than shock alone, the gunpowder in Eli’s hastily-pulled flintlock also made its presence known. Before the guard even had time to know what ‘too late’ might mean, he was already laid with his back upon the floor with his eyes wide to the heavens, an inch wide hole punched clean through his skull and thick pools of blood running deep between the cobbles.
Still as calm as if he were out for a morning stroll, Eli replaced the flintlock into his deepened inside pocket and walked slowly over to the still-twitching body,
taking another casual bite from the not-as-unpalatable-as-it-had-at-first-looked pie as he did. He was glad he had allowed the man to drain himself fully, he mused. Nothing quite so unpalatable as squeezing yourself into another man’s piss-sodden pants.
The raucous commotion still audible in the square behind would go on for a few more minutes yet, so there would be no need for him to rush. The home-made firecrackers, and the commotion they brought in their wake, had done exactly what he had needed them to do. They had enabled him to quite literally throw fear and confusion into the midst of the square whilst also masking what would have been a very audible gunshot by utilising a random sequence of echoed bangs and disparate screams.
“And never return to a firework once lit…” he said, calmly eyeing the guard’s still-quivering frame one more time. Wisps of steam were drifting into the air from the gaping hole which now dominated the his forehead, his expression cast in a look of shock that would remain fixed until his burial, a glistening pillow of blood spreading ever wider beneath his head.
Eli took one more bite of the pie and threw the remainder to the rats.
“Because it might just go off in your face.”
FORTY
Wednesday, August 23, 2043. 1:16am.
5th & Alameda, Los Angeles, California.
Mike Knight, the fifty-two year old thick-set security guard at KRT’s main office, had done the night shift for nine months. Three more and he could then move to days, thank God. That would please him, a lot, and please his wife Dinah even more, though she would never say as much. His teenage son Dwayne, however, would damn well hate it. Dinah was a pushover at the best of times and, for some reason, Dwayne really did seem to prefer Mike not being in the house when he had his pals over into the early hours. Things were about to change for that lad.
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